Archive for Henri Matisse

Venetian Red Bookshelf: Daily Rituals: How Artists Work

Posted in Artists Speak, Book Review, Fine & Decorative Arts, Liz Hager, Music & Dance with tags , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , on June 18, 2013 by Liz Hager

By LIZ HAGER
© Liz Hager, 2013. All Rights Reserved

Recollect that only when habits of order are formed can we advance to really interesting fields of action—and consequently accumulate grain on grain of wilful choice like a very miser—never forgetting how one link dropped undoes indefinite number.   —William James

I wish I had a routine for writing. I get up in the morning and I go out to my studio and write. And then I tear it up! That’s the routine really. And then, occasionally, something sticks. The only image I can think of is a man walking around with an iron rod in his hand during a lightning storm.   —Arthur Miller

http://www.amazon.com/gp/product/0307273601?ie=UTF8&camp=213733&creative=393185&creativeASIN=0307273601&linkCode=shr&tag=venered-20&=books&qid=1371354568&sr=1-1&keywords=daily+rituals

Always struggling to create working discipline in my creative life, I snatched up Mason Curry’s Daily Rituals, hoping to glean a few actionable tidbits this compilation of anecdotes on the working habits of 161 writers, musicians and artists, from Voltaire to Abramović.  Culled from Curry’s blog of the name, the book is a fast and entertaining read.  Though I wasn’t struck by proverbial lightening bolts while reading, after digesting the book I did formulate one hugely-important overriding maxim for myself.  More about that below.

A disclaimer in the book’s introduction sets a modest stage:

“…this is a superficial book… it’s about the circumstances of creative activity, not the product; it deals with manufacturing rather than meaning.”

I suspect the book has been wildly popular precisely because it looks behind the curtain, so to speak, of the creative process.  Not exactly a “how to” book, Daily Rituals is nevertheless instructive.  In the introduction Curry purports to address (if not answer) the big hairy questions we all ponder:

How do you do meaningful creative work while also earning a living?

Is it better to devote yourself wholly to a project or to set aside a small portion of each day?

When there doesn’t seem to be enough time for all you hope to accomplish, must you give some things up or can you learn to condense activities, to work “smarter”?

Are comfort and creativity incompatible? Or is finding a basic level of daily comfort a prerequisite for sustained creative work?

yousuf-karsh-vladimir-nabokov-1899-1977-3-november-1972

Vladimir Nabokov
©Yousuf Karsh

The book is not organized around these questions (in fact, an organizing principle was not obvious to me), and leaves the reader to his or her own conclusions. Helpful patterns do emerge, however:

Wake Up.  Creatives rise around the clock.  At one end, rose Proust typically did not get up until 3 or 4 in the afternoon; on the other end,
Balzac rose at 1am.

Work Routine. This category too yielded no regularity.  As a visual artist, I was astonished (jealous?) to discover how few hours most of the writers purport to work day, usually just a few hours before noon. Many set word limits for themselves and then, working day completed, went on to the other parts of their lives. (To be fair, many writers held/hold down paying jobs—Trollope, Cornell, Eliot, Joyce.) Some, like Simon de Beauvoir did, work in two shifts, adding an after dinner session to the morning routine. Philip Roth reports all-day work. Conversely, Gertrude Stein habitually wrote only 30 minutes a day. Descartes believed idleness was essential to good mental work.  Henry Miller had to switch routines midway through life, realizing that he was a morning person. Francis Bacon’s routine was chaos. One look at his studio, faithfully reproduced in The Hugh Lane Gallery, Dublin, tells you all you need to know.

Bed. A big part of the routine, especially for writers… Proust wrote exclusively in bed, his head propped up by two pillows. Truman Capote always wrote “horizontally.” I particularly relish the image conjured up by James Joyce’s sister of the writer in bed”smothered in his own thoughts.”

Cecil Beaton, Dame Edith Sitwell, 1962 Bromide Print on card mount Courtesy National Gallery

Cecil Beaton, Dame Edith Sitwell, 1962
Bromide print on card mount
Courtesy National Gallery

Edith Sitwell, who was reputed to have slept in a coffin from time to time (one would have thought that would be Anne Rice’s territory…), also enjoyed her bed.  “All women should have a day a week in bed,”  she quipped. At the end of one particularly long day working in bed, she observed:  “I am honestly so tired that all I can do is lie on my bed with my mouth open.”

Although Frida Kahlo is not included in this book, one is reminded of her lengthy and involuntary stays in bed. So driven to work, she rigged ingenious set ups , which allowed her to paint while nearly immobilized.

Food. For breakfast, coffee or tea, toast and, more often than not, cigarettes. It seems that hardly anyone in the book skipped breakfast or at least the first meal of the day. (Possibly the advice imparted by a recent graduation speaker—”Never start something new on an empty stomach”—is already common wisdom among creatives.)  Lunch and dinner are also recorded, mostly as social events with family or friends.

Stimulants. Daily Rituals offers irrefutable confirmation that creatives consume copious amounts of alcohol, occasionally while working. (Or used to, at any rate. Maybe that has all changed in today’s health-conscious world.)  Francis Bacon was legendary, living a life of “hedonistic excess, eating many rich meals a day, drinking tremendous quantities of alcohol, taking whatever stimulants were handy, and generally staying out later and partying harder than any of his contemporaries.”

John Deakin, Francis Bacon. 1962

John Deakin Francis Bacon,1962
© The Estate of John Deakin

Patricia Highsmithalways downed a stiff drink before starting work, in order to calm her manic energy level. Toulouse-Lautrec was well-known for his nights of binge drinking. That routine probably cost him his life—he died at 36.

Smoking. Many many cigarettes of course, but also cigars (Georges Sand famously; Thomas Mann, continuously), and some pipes.  Bathus had a most evocative description of the uses of smoking:

“I’ve always painted while smoking. I am reminded of this habit in photographs from my youth. I intuitively understood that smoking double my faculty of concentration, allowing me to be entirely within a canvas.”

Other habits & diversions:  Creative people spend lots and lots of walking. (A body in motion is a powerful ideation tool.) And working at regular income jobs. On the subject of breaks, composer John Adams sensibly says: “The problem is that you do get run out of creative energy and sometimes you want to take a mental break.”

And indulge in your guilty pleasures! PG Wodehouse reportedly never missed an episode of “The Edge of Night” afternoon soap opera.

Henri Matisse at work Photograph © Alvin Langdon Coburn, courtesy Getty Images

Henri Matisse at work
© Alvin Langdon Coburn, courtesy Getty Images

On the pain and joy of the craft. Writers compete for superlatives on the distress of working. Philip Roth: “Writing isn’t hard work, it’s a nightmare.”  Styron similarly complains: “Let’s face it, writing is hell.” Ira Gershwin observed of his brother, George: “To me George was a little sad all the time because he had this compulsion to work. He never relaxed.”

On the other hand, joyful work be yours, if you happen to be a creative Gustave. The Austrian Mahler:  “You know that all I desire and demand of life is to feel an urge to work!” The French Flaubert quipped: ” After all, work is still the best way of escaping from life!”

Among visual artists, Matisse was perhaps the most relentless worker, even telling “all sorts of tales” to get his models to work on Sundays.  “I can’t sacrifice my Sundays for them just because they have boyfriends.” Matisse had the great fortune to basically enjoy everything. “I am never bored,” he often admitted.

Chuck Close, Self Portrait,  2006

Chuck Close, Self Portrait, 2006

I’m not sure Daily Rituals provides overt answers to the big questions Curry poses at the onset.  In the aggregate, its overwhelming message is that creative work, like all work, is often just relentless grind.  One has to find the ways to muscle through. On a personal note, I try to live by Chuck Close’s well-known adage: ” Inspiration is for amateurs. The rest of us just show up and get to work.” Amidst our creative toil, who among us has not at times felt Kafka’s lament: “Time is short, my strength is limited, the office is a horror, the apartment is noisy, and if a pleasant straightforward life is not possible then one must try to wriggle through by subtle maneuvers.”

If the 161 anecdotes in Daily Rituals offer any collective wisdom, it is that there is no one way to achieve regular production.  That’s permission to engage in whatever habits work best for one’s own creative process, as long as the habit is regular.  In a 2005 NY Times article, Michael Kimmelman noted: “Out of routine comes inspiration. That’s the idea, anyway. To grasp what’s exceptional, you first have to know what’s routine.”

Find a process and trust it.

The Rabbit Hole

Twyla Tharpe—The Creative Habit: Learn It and Use It for Life
More Artist Routines—How We Work
John Deakin: Photographs
Eric Fishl—Bad Boy: My Life On and Off the Canvas
NY Foundation for the Arts—”Ten Habits of Successful Artists

Venetian Red Notebook: Othon Friesz’s Chromatic Fervor

Posted in Bay Area Art Scene, Fine & Decorative Arts, Liz Hager, Painting with tags , , , , , on November 28, 2009 by Liz Hager

By LIZ HAGER

Othon Friesz, Paysage (Le Bec de l’Aigle, La Ciotat), 1907
oil on canvas, 25 3/8 x 32″ (courtesy SF MOMA)

It would be easy to overlook Othon Friesz’s Paysage (Le Bec de l’Aigle, La Ciotat) in the upstairs gallery of works on permanent display at SF MOMA. Tucked just inside the entryway on the right, this gem of chromatic fervor is not directly in sight. With the far wall beckoning, one is tempted to make a bee-line across the room, ignoring the wall on which The Eagle’s Beak hangs.

That would be a shame,  because the painting is just about as good an example of Fauvism—that fleeting but influential movement—as exists in the museum’s collection.

If his mother had had her way, Othon Friesz (1879-1949) would have become a musician. But, Friesz, born into a prominent shipbuilding family in Le Havre, convinced her that art was his true calling. Friesz studied at the École des Beaux-Arts (Le Havre) under neo-classicist Charles-Marie Lhuillier. There he met Georges Braque and Raoul Dufy, who would become lifelong friends, as well as fellow Fauves.

Othon Friesz, Bec de l’Aigle, La Ciotat, 1906-7
oil on canvas, 65.5 x 81 cms.

In 1898, Friesz moved to Paris to study at the Beaux-Arts under Academic painter Leon Bonnat.

Despite the academic styles of of teachers, Othon Friesz’s work this period shows the hallmarks of Impressionism—painting directly from nature, interest in the effects of light

In the first years of the new century, however, Friesz sought to break away from Impressionism. In Paris he met Henri Matisse and came under the spell of the emotional force of colors and the power of the flattened picture plane that defined the Fauvist painters. In 1905, he exhibited with the other Fauves at the seminal Salon d’Automne and again in 1906 at the Salon des Indépendants.

Like Matisse, Derain and the other Fauves, Friesz’s style owes much to Cézanne’s innovations in composition, color and brush technique. Freisz pushed color and line into the realm of the decorative, to great effect. Though the compositional lines of this painting swirl with harmonious movement, curiously Le Bec feels like an unrushed effort. It’s less like a plein air work and more deliberately thought out, more embellished as a result of the thinking.

As critic Clive Bell observed in 1921: “… Friesz has a reaction as delicate and enthusiastic as that of an English poet. Only, unlike most English painters, he would never dream of jotting it down and leaving it at that. Such hit-or-miss frivolity is not in his way. He is no amateur. He takes his impressions home and elaborates them; he brings his intellect to bear on them; and, as the exhibition at the Independent Gallery shows, without robbing them of their bloom, makes them something solid and satisfying. .” (Burlington Magazine, June 1921, p.281)

Othon Friesz, La Ciotat, 1907
oil on canvas, 65 x 80 cm (private collection).

In Le Bec, Friesz has succeeded in revealing the essential character of Le Bec, a most unusual natural form. Equally important through his distinctive color palette—warm yellows and reds—he has expertly evoked the afternoon light of the Mediterranean.

By 1908, a revived interest in Paul Cézanne’s vision of the order and structure of nature had led many of them to reject the turbulent emotionalism of Fauvism in favor of the logic of Cubism. (Braque to substantial success.) And yet, the Fauves released generations of subsequent painters from the restraints of “local” color.

Le Bec stands as our own local testament to this brief, luminescent moment in the history of art.

Wider Connections

Scott Hewicker & Cliff Hengst pair SF MOMA Collection with some of their favorite songs, including this Friesz.
Masters of Color exhibition catalog
More Friesz

Alma Thomas: On the Shoulders of Giants

Posted in Female Artists, Fine & Decorative Arts, Liz Hager, Painting, Politics with tags , , , , , , , , , , on October 27, 2009 by Liz Hager

Editor’s Note: Over the past several weeks our contributors have been on hiatus, in order to participate in SF Open Studios event. With this piece Venetian Red resumes its regular posting schedule.

By LIZ HAGER

Alma Thomas, Red Azaleas Singing and Dancing Rock and Roll Music, 1976,
acrylic on canvas, 72 1/4 x 135 1/2″.
(The Smithsonian American Art Museum)

In 1924, Alma Thomas (1891-1978) became the first woman to graduate from Howard University’s newly-created fine arts department. Quite possibly, she was the first African-American to hold this kind of degree. She went on to become the first women to receive a Masters’ degree (teaching) from Columbia University. For 35 years, Thomas dedicated herself to teaching art to high school students. She retired in 1960, in order to focus on her own work. In her 70s, plagued by arthritis and degenerating eyesight, she threw herself into her work. In 1972, at age 80, she became the first African-American woman to have a solo show mounted by the Whitney Museum of American Art.

Two weeks ago, Alma Thomas made news yet again.

Alma Thomas—Blue Abstraction 1961Alma Thomas, Blue Abstraction, c.1961
oil on canvas, 34 x 40″.
(Howard University Gallery of Art, Washington, D.C.)

Although the list of artworks the Obamas have requisitioned for the White House collection was released months ago, it wasn’t until a recent  New York Times’ article—“White House Art”—that members of the conservative blogosphere found another excuse to blast the Obama administration. Indignant, they locked their rifle scopes on one painting in particular, Alma Thomas’ Watusi (Hard Edge).  Free Republic and Michelle Malkin posted particularly exemplary pieces, decrying the work as an “almost exact replication” of Henri Matisse’s (1869-1954) The Snail. All Thomas had done, they argued, was to rotate Matisse’s canvas clockwise 90° and change some colors. “An embarrassment for the ‘sophisticates’ who failed to spot a copy hiding in plain sight,” one blogger hissed.

Henri Matisse, The Snail, 1953
gouache on paper, cut and pasted on paper mounted on canvas, approximately 113″ square.
(Tate Gallery)

Alma Thomas, Watusi (Hard Edge), 1963
acrylic on canvas, 47 5/8 x 44 1/4″.
(Hirshhorn Museum and Sculpture Garden)

The outcry was predictably bereft of thoughtful analysis. In the aggregate, the derisive comments—”my two year old could have done that” and “the crap that passes for art”— not to mention downright ugly sneers—”The original itself is a hoax. Most modern art is.”—might otherwise be a sobering reminder that a vocal segment of the population appears truly threatened by modern art. Predictably, though, the commentators revealed themselves to be neither knowledgeable nor interested in the subject of modern art. No, it was pretty clear from the particulars (including some nasty, racially-oriented snips) that Thomas and, by extension modern art, was merely the scapegoat here; Watusi was the vehicle through which the conservative fringe could ridicule, yet again, the President’s alleged lack of judgment. One self-appoint -ed cognoscente snickered: “He can’t even pick real art.”

Jean Arp, Untitled (Collage with Squares Arranged According to the Laws of Chance), 1916-1917
torn-and-pasted paper and colored paper on colored paper, 19 1/8 x 13 5/8″.
(Museum of Modern Art; © 2009 Artists Rights Society (ARS), New York / VG Bild-Kunst, Bonn)

Did Alma Thomas copy Matisse? When it comes to intellectual property, despite  legal guidelines, copying is often harder to prove than it would seem.

Alma Thomas, Early Cherry Blossoms, 1973,
acrylic on canvas, 69 x 50″.
(Michael Rosenfeld Gallery)

On the one hand, as any trained artist knows, examining the world through the eyes of others is a necessary step on the road to developing a “mature” personal style. Indeed, all of human progress has been built on the shoulders of previous giants. Matisse’s cutouts could not have existed without the work of the collagists who preceded him—Jean Arp,  Kurt Schwitters, Hannah Höch—who in turn owed debts to earlier Cubists, Picasso and Braque. And on it goes.

Henri Matisse, Snow Flowers,1951,
watercolor and gouache on cut and pasted papers, 75 11/16  x  35 7/8″.
(Metropolitan Museum of Art)

On the other hand, illegitimate copying is real. Both Richard Prince (See VR’s “Prince of Pilfer”) and Jeff Koons have  been sued by photographers for incorporating copyrighted work into their own. Koons lost the Rogers v. Koons case, but won a more recent suit under the “fair use” doctrine.  Readers will remember that earlier this year Damien Hirst threatened to sue a 16-year-old over his use of an image of Hirst’s diamond-incrusted skull, in the process demanding royalties.

Alma Thomas at work in her studio, 1970s?

In the imaginary case of Matisse v. Thomas, interpretations of the “substantially similar” clause suggest many ambiguities that would present a challenge to definitively proving copyright infringement. (Imagined cries of “I know copying when I see it!” from Thomas bashers aside.) Thomas always credited Matisse for the inspiration that produced Watusi. It is obvious that the work launched her on a journey of artistic discovery that produced her unique and forward-looking (if not radical) mosaic style.

To assert that Thomas was “simply copying” Matisse would be to deny the rich and varied underpinnings of her work.  Thomas was deeply impressed by the colors and patterns of the natural world around her.  “Light reveals to us the spirit and living soul of the world through colors,” she once said.

Lois Mailou Jones, Les Fetiches, 1938
oil on linen, approximately 21 x 25″.
(The Smithsonian American Art Museum)

At her best, Thomas adeptly fused her own interpretation of the modernist approaches to color with the craft traditions (textile-based in Thomas’ case) of black America to arrive at a style that, while abstract, never quite looses its connection with natural form.  In addition to Matisse, Thomas identified with the work of Cézanne, as well as her teachers Jacob KainenRobert Gates, Joe Summerford, and Lois Mailou Jones.

Alma Thomas, Oriental Garden Concerto, 1976
acrylic on canvas, 68 1/4 X 54 1/4″.
(Hirshhorn Museum and Sculpture Garden)

If there was any real “crime” committed by the Obamas in the selection of their White House collection, it was that only 6 (!) of the 45 pieces were by women. (Louise Nevelson and Susan Rothenberg also included.)  Worse perhaps, no Latinos/as were represented at all.  Not exactly  “Change We Can Believe In.”

Alma Thomas, White Roses Sing and Sing, 1976
acrylic on canvas, 72 1/2 x 52 3/8″.
(Smithsonian American Art Museum)

The Hullaballoo

Michelle Malkin—Do the Watusi: Art, Imitation, and the Obamas

greg.org—“On Wingnuts on Alma Thomas”

Steven Kaplan—“Watusi vs. L’Escargot: Another Desperate Republican Attempt to Smear Obama”

The Mississippifarian—“It’s Called ‘Having a Clue.’ “

Wider Connections

Holland Cotter—“Colors From a World of Black and White”

Self-taught sculptor William Edmondson was the first African-American to have a solo show in a major US museum. See “Doin’ the Lord’s Work.”

John Elderfield—The Cutouts of Henri Matisse

Merry Foresta—Alma Thomas: A Life in Art

News Grist: Audio Symposium—A Search for Comity in the Intellectual Property Wars

US Copyright Office

A Different Canvas: Raoul Dufy

Posted in Liz Hager, Painting, Textiles with tags , , , on October 7, 2009 by Liz Hager

By LIZ HAGER
© Liz Hager, 2009. All Rights Reserved

This is the second installment in a series of posts, in which Venetian Red explores aspects of artist-designed textiles.  For all posts in the series, click here.

Raoul Dufy—Jungle, 1922Raoul Dufy, Jungle, printed cotton, 1922.

A versatile painter, Raoul Dufy (1877-1953) was equally at home in the disciplines of fine and applied arts. In addition to several thousand paintings and drawings, he left behind illustrations for about 50 literary works, more than four dozen tapestries, 200 ceramic pieces, and nearly 5,000 fabric designs.

Raoul Dufy, Vieilles maisons sur le bassin de Honfleur, 1906,
oil on canvas.

As an ardent disciple of Matisse, Duffy’s witty and joyous paintings of southern France, with their vibrant colors, calligraphic lines, and sparse modeling, are a testament to the zeal with which the painter remade himself from an Impressionist into a Fauve.

Raoul Dufy—Mme Dufy, 1930Raoul Dufy, Madame Dufy, 1930,
oil on canvas
(Musée Masséna, Nice).

Dufy certainly shared his mentor’s pre-occupation with the decorative. Ornamental elements show up in his earlier paintings. But Dufy’s textile designs are where he manipulates the decorative into sensuous and ecstatic works.

In fact, Dufy’s work in textile design, first with fashion designer Paul Poiret and later with the Lyons-based silk manufacturer Bianchini-Ferier, directly informed his fine art style. The flat decorative pattern of colors he employed in textile designs made their way back into his paintings; by the late 20s all of his paintings fully embrace ornament.

Raoul Dufy—croquis 1920Raoul Dufy, Croquis de Modes No. 1, 1920
(Courtesy HP Prints)

The collaborations with Poiret began in 1910. Though he had participated five years earlier in the prestigious exhibitions of the time (Les Salons d’Automne and Indépendents), Dufy found himself facing sobering financial circumstances. It must have seemed like a godsend, when Poiret, on the basis of the artist’s experiments in woodcuts, commissioned him to design fabrics.

Raoul Dufy, La Fôret, ca. 1911 printed cotton
(Courtesy FDIM Museum, Los Angeles).

Then at the peak of his influence, Poiret was known simply as Le Magnifique, a reference to Sultan Süleyman the Magnificent, who had led Ottoman Empire to its most expansive and powerful. Working with fabric directly on the body, Poiret pioneered a radical approach to dressmaking that relied on the skills of draping rather than tailoring and pattern making. Looking to antique and regional dress, in particular “oriental” styles, Poiret advocated clothing cut along straight lines and constructed of rectangles. More practically, Poiret’s trailblazing notions about fashion liberated women from the Edwardian corset.

Raoul Dufy, Design for Paul Poiret, ca. 1917 (Miriam Shiell Fine Art).

Poiret saw no distinction between the fine and applied arts; he saw art and fashion as indivisible. Poiret  promoted his fashions as unique and original works of art in and of themselves. The collaboration with Dufy produced such signature creations as “La Perse” coat, “La Rose d’Iribe” day dress, and the “Bois de Boulogne” dinner dress (which is made from a fabric that Dufy designed in conjunction with Bianchini-Férier). They demonstrate how Dufy’s flat, graphic patterns were ideally suited to Poiret’s designs.

Paul Poiret, “La Perse” with fabric designed by Raoul Dufy, 1911
(Metropolitan Museum of Art).

It was a short-lived but fruitful collaboration. Failing to imitate Dufy’s bold wood-blocked patterns, in 1912 Charles Bianchini made Dufy an offer too good to refuse, and Dufy left his partnership with Poiret to sign on to an exclusive contract with the Lyonaise firm.  This incredibly productive relationship lasted until the late 1920s and produced thousands of designs.

Raoul Dufy (attributed)—Roses, 1925

Attributed to Raoul Dufy, Roses, printed cotton, 1929.

Though many of the artist’s designs were monochromatic, mimicking style of thick lined woodcuts, Dufy also utilized the sumptuous palette of the Fauves to great success. He returned to certain themes again and again—florals and exotic animals (the leopard and elephant for example) were particular favorites. Dufy was a master at designing geometric patterns using blocks of opposing colors—the design created equally by the object and by the negative space enclosing it.

Raoul Dufy—Les Tuileries, 1920-21

Raoul Dufy, Les Tuilleries, woven textile design, 1920-21.

Dufy’s artistic legacy languished for a number decades after his death in 1953. Critics considered his work trivial. Perhaps they could not reconcile the Fine Art /Applied Art dichotomy in his work or maybe they just didn’t know what to do with an artist who so resolutely celebrated life. Nevertheless, it seems certain now that Dufy’s greatest artistic achievement was his ability, irrespective of the canvas, to evoke joy. Once when asked about the role of art in life, he responded: “To render beauty accessible to all, by putting order into things and thought.”

In the process of working both sides of the art street, so to speak, Raoul Dufy helped to change the face of fashion and fabric design. He was nearly single-handedly responsible for the formulation of practically all modern fabric design between 1909 and 1930, and his style radically influenced the popular arts and the commercial design of the Western world.

Raoul Dufy—Interior with A Hindu Girl, 1930, Royal Museum Copenhagen

Raoul Dufy, Interior with a Hindu Girl, 1930
oil on canvas, approx. 32 x 40″
(National Gallery of Denmark).

Even today, Dufy’s vision informs the color, design, texture, and imagery of a wide range of products in our contemporary world.

The Rabbit Hole

More Dufy

Poiret: King of Fashion exhibit

The New Yorker—Judith Thurman “Cut Loose: Paul Poiret’s Revolution

Dufy, Le Bestiaire (collaboration with Guillaume Apollinaire)

Voguepedia: Paul Poiret

Venetian Red Turns 200

Posted in Fine & Decorative Arts, Lace, Liz Hager, Painting, Textiles with tags , , , , on September 5, 2009 by Liz Hager

By LIZ HAGER

matisse-interior-in-venetian-red-1946

Henri Matisse, Interior in Venetian Red, 1946
Oil on linen, 36 1/4 x 25 1/2″
(Musées Royaux des Beaux-Arts de Belgique)

Before we launched Venetian Red, one trusted blogmeister advised us that it would take at least 200 posts before we’d really get noticed. Back in May 2008, that seemed like an impossible goal, nearly unfathomable in its abstraction. And yet, by the miracle of passion and diligence, here we are. Of course, 200 is just an arbitrary signpost; it’s what’s behind the number that’s most important.

As two working artists, we conceived this blog as a vehicle to share our perspectives on the collective creative endeavor. We wanted a forum to dig more deeply into what influences and inspires us creatively. We wanted to delve into the mysteries and commonalities of creating art. We wanted to explore the connections, big and small, between the art and design worlds. We wanted to think out loud about the issues that concern us. We decided to do this in a public realm, because making art, like being human, is more richly experienced as a collaborative process.

We’re proud of our work to date, which, true to our interests, is wide-ranging. Venetian Red has tackled Old Masters and kuba cloth; painters and lace makers; photographers and Russian windows; site works and artists writing about art. In places, we’ve gone deep—over the past 14 months we’ve devoted a lot of space to the Victorians and the Ottomans. (Well why not? They’re a fascinating lot.)  On other topics, we’ve only skimmed the surface. Thankfully, there is so much more to discuss.

And while pondering and writing have been fulfilling in their own right, our biggest reward has been finding you, our group of loyal readers. When we posted our first entry, A Crimson Fez, we had no idea whether what we had to say would interest anyone else. Miraculously, though, you showed up. In numbers (some of you from half-way around the globe) and with feedback. For that, we thank you!

Venetian Red is blessed in turning 200. Thank you for being here to celebrate this milestone. We hope that you will stay with us—there are still many places to go on this enduring journey of mystery and discovery that is art.

Hidden Identity: Musings on the Backside (Part III)

Posted in Fine & Decorative Arts, Liz Hager, Painting, Sculpture with tags , , , , , , , , on February 28, 2009 by Liz Hager

Editor’s Note: This is the first in a series of posts on portraits featuring sitters’ backsides. Others in the series may be found here.

By LIZ HAGER

matisse-back-ivHenri Matisse, The Back (III), spring-summer 1916,
Bronze, 6′ 2 1/2″ x 44″ x 6.”
(Courtesy Museum of Modern Art, Mrs. Simon Guggenheim Fund. © 2009 Succession H. Matisse, Paris / Artists Rights Society (ARS), New York.)

Like Aguado’s photograph and Friedrich’s Wanderer in a Sea of Fog, the human backside was a prop through which Henri Matisse explored what interested him most, the essential character of things beneath their superficial and fleeting exteriors. Deconstruction and simplification of form were to be Matisse’s great helpmates in this search for essential character, particularly during the years between 1913-1917, a period of great artistic experimentation.

The Back III belongs to a series of bronze bas reliefs that the artist made roughly between 1909 and 1930. Although not conceived by Matisse as a series, the artist returned to this subject repeatedly with a continuity of purpose. Moreover, the panels share artistic DNA, for the artist created each new Back from a plaster cast of the previous relief and altered it through the application of clay.

The earliest panel is lost, but, as a group, the remaining bas reliefsThe Back I, 1908-09; The Back II, 1913; The Back III, 1916; The Back IV, c. 1931— superbly demonstrate the artist’s quest to for the essence of human-ness. The choice of pose in the Back series had its genesis predominantly in Cézanne’s painting, Three Bathers ca. 1880, which Matisse went into massive debt to own, but the artist also professed to have been influenced by Gauguin’s Tahitian Women painting.

With each subsequent state in the Back series Matisse created a bolder reduction of that back form into essential shapes, until he arrived (albeit much later in his career) at the radical and monolithic simplicity of Back IV.  By choosing the back  for this sculptural exploration, Matisse forced himself to search for the essence of female form beyond the most obvious differentiators.

With Back III Matisse reached a certain milestone in his quest for the essential identity of human form. He has reduced the figure to just a long tail of hair connected to the vertical spine, the tell-tale curve of the hip, and an arm gesture that speaks to particularly human ability to rotate the arms.

Interestingly, while human-ness is still very much in evidence in Back III, the human presence has receded. The superficial explanations, such as choice of materials metal—its coldness alienates us—and scale—despite the figure’s life-sized dimensions, Matisse has rendered her to feel more massive than we (we see her as the monument of all women)—apply equally, I think, to earlier versions. And yet they retain elements of the human presence.

I can’t help thinking that this absence is really due to the loss of individuality. In other words, has reducing the human form to its visual essence—by its definition the unvarying or universal “truth”—necessarily eliminated the variation and thus the individual identity inherent in the human form? In the artistic rendering of humans, is it possible to capture both individual and collective identity?

Matisse—Madame Matisse rouge

Henri Matisse, Mme. Matisse (madras rouge), 1907, oil on canvas, 39 1/8 x 31 3/4 ” (courtesy Barnes Foundation)

The process of simplification in Matisse’s work was influenced to some extent by Cubism, but also by the artist’s growing interest in sub-Saharan carvings. He once observed of reductive nature of African art: “they were conceived from the point of view of sculptural language. . . made in terms of their material according to invented planes and proportions.” Due to their essential “planes and proportions,” the aesthetic of these ethnographic items were embraced whole-heartedly by the artist in both his paintings and sculptures.

During the period from 1913-1917 in particular, Matisse made great strides pushing his naturalistic style toward abstraction of form. (He never leapt into pure abstraction, as his images were still derived from external realities.) This exploration was not limited to his sculptural works, as these paintings demonstrate.

matisse-portrait-of-sarah-stein-1916

Henri Matisse, Portrait of Sarah Stein, 1916, oil on canvas, 28 1/2 x 22 1/4″ (SF MOMA)

By 1916, the Matissean decorative exuberance had begun to creep back into his work. Matisse did not abandon abstraction altogether, but it took him until the 1940s and the experimentation with cut-out form to return full-force to this inquiry.

Hidden Identity—Parts I, II, IV

Wider Connections

Matisse’s drawings for the Back Series—I, II

Matisse’s cutouts

Antiques & the Arts: Cézanne’s influence on Modern Art


Hidden Identity: Musings on the Backside (Part II)

Posted in Fine & Decorative Arts, Liz Hager, Painting with tags , , , , , , , , , , , on February 27, 2009 by Liz Hager

Editor’s Note: This is the first in a series of posts on portraits featuring sitters’ backsides. Others in the series may be found here.

By LIZ HAGER

It is easier to perceive error than to find truth, for the former lies on the surface and is easily seen, while the latter lies in the depth, where few are willing to search for it.

—Johann Wolfgang von Goethe

Caspar David Friedrich, Wanderer Above the Sea of Fog, ca. 1818,
Oil on canvas, 94.8 x 74.8 cm
(Courtesy Kunsthalle, Hamburg)

The figure in Caspar David Friedrich’s landscape does not greet us or proudly point the way to the majestic landscape behind him.  Nor is he the variety of puny figure found in some landscapes, who are present mostly to demonstrate the monumental scale of the natural world. The “wanderer” deliberately turns his backside to us, assuming the stance of contemplation. His specific identity is not important.  He’s largely there as a symbolic reminder that this untamed landscape is the vehicle by which we humans experience heightened emotion.

The French sculptor David d’Angers reputedly observed of Friedrich: “Here is a man who has discovered the tragedy of landscape.” Thus he perfectly summed up the Romantic’s notion of the natural world. Working at the height of German Romanticism, Friedrich’s paintings referenced nature, not only as the antithesis to human civilization, but as the conduit to experience our deeper selves.

Partially as a reaction to the growing industrialization in Europe, the Romantic movement wound itself around the idea that strong emotion—including shock, horror, fear, awe—and sensitivity was a necessary and desired part of the aesthetic experience. The Romantics believed in the transformative power of the untrammeled landscape. The solitude of remote locales became the optimal environment in which to experience the true physical and spiritual isolation, necessary in itself to emotional depth and a deep understanding of the self. At the time, a mountain pinnacle such as the one depicted in Wanderer Above the Sea of Fog would have been ideal, for it was as far away from human civilization as any European could reasonably get.

While not concerned the figure’s identity, Wanderer Above the Sea of Fog nonetheless delves into the notion of identity, at least in the way the Romantics might have pondered it. The figure is not a random person plucked from obscurity;  it happens to be Friedrich himself. The painter himself stands on the rocky outcropping lost, we presume by the stance, in melancholic thought induced by the wild and shrouded landscape.  He is emblematic of the journey toward self-discovery, which is, after all, is at the root of identity.

Wider Connections

Isaiah Berlin—The Roots of Romanticism
Romanticism & the visual arts (a short primer)
Caspar David Friedrich—other landscapes
ColourLovers—Color and the Romantic painters
Goethe’s  Faust

Henri Matisse and Judas Iscariot on the Côte d’Azur

Posted in Drawing, Fine & Decorative Arts, Liz Hager with tags , , , , on January 11, 2009 by Liz Hager

Henri Matisse, Branch of a Judas Tree, 1942. Charcoal on paper, 10 3/8 x 15 7/8″ (26.3 x 40.3 cm). Gift of John Rewald in memory of Frances Weitzenhoffer. (© 2008 Succession H. Matisse, Paris / Artists Rights Society (ARS), New York)  

Originally from the Mediterranean, the Judas, or Redbud, tree is a small, shade-loving tree. Matisse would have seen the tree during his sojourn on the Côte d’Azur. Even had the artist not dated the drawing (8/42), we would know that it had been sketched sometime after May. While unassuming in appearance for most of the rest of the year, as one of the first blooming plants in early spring, the Judas tree bursts forth with magenta flowers on its bare leafless shoots. 

The tree received its moniker through Greek legend,  which suggested that this was the variety from which Judas Iscariot hanged himself. Judas, of course, was the Betrayer of Christ, having agreed to lead the chief priests to Christ and identify him by a kiss on the cheek.  Legend has it that, as a result of its association with Judas,  the tree’s white flowers turned red with blood or shame and bloomed violently pink from then on as a reminder of the act. 

According to the Gospel of Matthew, Judas repented his betrayal (27:4 —“I have sinned in betraying innocent blood”) and tried to return the silver to the chief priests, throwing the coins on the Temple floor. He then committed suicide by hanging himself. 

(The Book of Acts, however, offers a different and more Draconian account of what happened to Judas. It is said Judas purchased a field and fell in headfirst onto the field where, in wonderful descriptive “all his bowels gushed out.” —Acts I, Verse 18). 

The Color of Genius: Van Gogh’s Night Café

Posted in Artists Speak, Fine & Decorative Arts, Liz Hager, Painting with tags , , , , , , , , on December 30, 2008 by Liz Hager

van-gogh-cafe-de-la-nuit

Vincent Van Gogh, The Night Café, 1888,
oil on canvas, 28 1/2 x 36 1/4″ (©Yale University Art Gallery, Bequest of Stephen Carlton Clark)

In early September, 1888, nine months before he entered the Saint-Paul-de-Mausole asylum, Vincent Van Gogh (1853-1890) wrote a series of letters to his sister Wilhelmina and brother Theo, which detailed his objective in painting The Night Café.  In composite form, this text functions as both a roadmap of the robust complementary color scheme employed by the artist and an evocative explanation of the emotional substance of color, then a driving concern in the artist’s work.

I have just finished a canvas representing the interior of a night café illuminated by lamps. A few poor night wanderers are asleep in a corner. The room is blood red and dark yellow, and there under the gaslight the green billiard table casts an immense shadow on the floor. There are four yellow-lemon lamps with a glow of orange and green. The blood-red and the yellow-green of the billiard table, for instance, contrast with the soft tender Louis XV green of the counter, on which there is a rose nosegay. The white clothes of the landlord, watchful in a corner of that furnace, turn lemon-yellow, or pale luminous green.

In my picture of the “Night Café” I have tried to express the terrible passions of humanity by means of red and green. . . the café is a place where one can ruin oneself, go mad or commit a crime. There are 6 or 7 different reds in this canvas, from blood red to delicate pink, contrasting with as many pale or deep greens. Everywhere there is a clash and contrast of the most alien reds and greens, in the figures of little sleeping hooligans, in the empty dreary room, in violet and blue. I have tried to express the powers of darkness in a low public house, by soft Louis XV green and malachite, contrasting with yellow-green and harsh blue-greens, and all of this in an atmosphere like a devil’s furnace, of pale sulpher.

—Vincent van Gogh. Letters to Theo van Gogh. Written 8-10 September 1888 in Arles. Translated by Mrs. Johanna van Gogh-Bonger, edited by Robert Harrison, published in The Complete Letters of Vincent van Gogh, Publisher: Bulfinch, 1991, numbers 533, 534, W07.

The primary, secondary and tertiary colors of the Color Wheel.

In one letter, Van Gogh mused aloud that this color palette would cause his mentor, Hermanus Gijsbertus Tersteeg (note below), to peg The Night Café as “delirium tremens in full swing” (Letter 534).  It may have struck contemporary viewers as Van Gogh feared. Today, however, when standing in front of the painting, one marvels in how effectively the painter deployed that many different shades of green. Further, when one considers Night Café (and indeed other Van Gogh paintings from this decade before his death) in relation to the works of his contemporaries—Monet, Pissarro and Degas—one truly grasps Van Gogh’s monumental genius in the realm of color.

Claude Monet, Montagnes de l”Estére,1888,
oil on canvas, 65 X 92 cm, (© Courtauld Institute of Art, London)

Hilaire-Germain-Edgar Degas, After the Bath, Woman Drying Herself, 1888,
pastel and charcoal on paper, 18.5 x 23.75″
National Gallery, London)

Camille Jacob Pissarro, Vue de Bazincourt, 1889,
watercolor over graphite on plain weave cotton pasted to pulpboard, 8 1/16 x 10 1/16
Brooklyn Museum)

In viewing the painting its hard to imagine that the painter has managed to effectively utilize  By separating objects from their “local” (true optical) color, the artist freed himself to explore the inner nature of an object—its symbolism and emotional content.  This bit of innovation was to directly influence the next generation of artists, most notably Matisse, and lay the ground work for 20th century artists to abandon realistic representation of objects altogether in search of emotional reality.

Henri Matisse, Interior in Venetian Red, 1946,
oil on linen (Musées Royaux des Beaux-Arts de Belgique).

Wassily Kandinsky, Sketch for Composition II, 1909–10,
oil on canvas, 38 3/8 x 51 5/8″
(Solomon R. Guggenheim Museum, New York Solomon R. Guggenheim Founding Collection, 45.961.Vasily Kandinsky © 2007 Artists Rights Society (ARS), New York/ADAGP, Paris)

Jackson Pollock, Eyes in the Heat, 1946,
oil and enamel on canvas, 54 x 43 inches
(The Solomon R. Guggenheim Foundation Peggy Guggenheim Collection, Venice, 76.2553.149.
Jackson Pollock © 2007 The Pollock-Krasner Foundation/Artists Rights Society, New York).

Note: Van Gogh had worked briefly under Tersteeg (1845-1927) when he was employed as a clerk in his uncle’s art gallery Goupil et Cie in The Hague in 1869,  before being promoted and transferred to the company’s London office.

Wider Connections
Van Gogh’s Letters
Van Gogh Museum
The Vincent Van Gogh Gallery
Impressionism and the Making of Modern Art

“Provenance is Everything”: Restitution of Plundered Art

Posted in Fine & Decorative Arts, Liz Hager, Painting with tags , , , , , , , , , on November 26, 2008 by Liz Hager

By LIZ HAGER
© Liz Hager, 2008. All Rights Reserved

Henri Matisse, Paysage, Le Mur Rose, 1898,
oil on canvas

On Monday Le Figaro reported that the Centre Pompidou, after holding the above Matisse painting for 60 years, would be donating it to the original owner’s legitimate heir, Magen David Adom (the Israeli equivalent of the Red Cross). “Le Mur Rose” is not a Matisse masterpiece; it lacks the bold color, decorative motifs, and flat spatial elements that characterize the artist’s best “modernist” work. Nevertheless, the painting has been tinged with notoriety by the truly gruesome details of its journey. The story’s wide syndication in the American press on Tuesday reminds us that, despite six decades, the fires of public interest in the issue of restitution of artwork looted by the Nazis from Jewish collections still burn quite brightly.

Art has been subject to plunder for centuries. During one of his invasions of Italy, Napoleon brought home to France a hoard of masterpieces that still adorn the walls of the Louvre. Between 1801-1805 Lord Elgin shipped to England the celebrated marble carvings from the Acropolis in Athens with permission from the Ottoman court. Aurel Stein and a host of other 19th-century archeologists liberated tens of thousands of the ancient treasures of Central Asia.

Art theft is a robust business today; Various sources estimate the value of stolen artwork to be between $6-$11 billion annually. No ancient or modern heist, audacious though some have been, compares in magnitude to rigorous institutionalized theft the Nazis engineered in Europe between the years 1940 and 1944. Through highly-organized bureaucratic efforts, millions of objects were removed from their rightful places, catalogued, transported and stored (in salt mines and castles) in preparation for the glorious cultural debut of the Third Reich.

In addition to usurping the collections of fleeing or deported Jews, Nazi officials of all ranks picked off art and artifacts throughout the unprotected or unsuspecting museums of Europe. They took objects from not just the vanquished countries like France and Holland, but also from their ally Italy. By some reckonings nearly 1/5 of all the known artwork in Europe ended up in Nazi hands. The plundering of cultural property was such a priority for the Nazis, that it became one of the other key charges against them at the Nürnberg trials.

Of course, one of the ironies of history is that as a young man Hitler was desperate to be a serious artist. From his existing work, we know that he was technically accomplished, but creatively uninspired. If only he’d been blessed with greater artistic vision. Apparently, he and Göring together often flipped through the many albums of photographs that documented the stolen works. One imagines that in these moments Der Kunstler-Führer reveled in the pure joy of aesthetic beauty of the works, while Der Despot-Führer summarily suppressed all moral responsibility.

Once in Adolf Hitler’s “collection”: Jan Vermeer, The Astronomer, 1668,
oil on canvas, 19 3/8 x 17 3/4 inches

Today cultural institutions are faced with a myriad of complicated issues involving legitimate claims by heirs of the original Jewish collectors, not to mention the moral and ethical questions that surround the looting and resale of antiquities. Social, cultural and legal entities continue to struggle to set standards that respect private ownership and public enjoyment, chart the middle ground between national and international heritage, and wrestle with reasonable statute of limitation cutoffs. Progress is being made.

One wishes for solutions that encourage the preservation of artwork in public view.

Wider Connections

Details, Le Mur Rose

The Rape of Europa—PBS’ gripping documentary on Nazi pillage of artworks from all over Europe and Allied restitution efforts

“What would you decide?” —The Jewish Museum (Berlin)’s online restitution game

Provenance of Klimt’s portrait of Adele Bauer-Bloch (now at the Neue Galerie, New York)

Albert Rosenberg and the Einsatzstab Reichsleiter Rosenberg

Interpol—Recently reported stolen

Stolen —Documentary on the Gardner Museum heist

The English Assassin

Stolen Art of the Holocaust at the Israel Museum

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